


Waverly, IA

by zombie_socks



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, some strong language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious man with sunglasses and a badge is on the hunt for a ghost. To find him, he goes to a small Iowan town to ask the locals about their legend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waverly, IA

**Author's Note:**

> The Barton family is only mentioned, but since it's technically about them, I've tagged them.   
> All Waverly patrons are of my own creation - minus the Bartons, who are Marvel's - and are not intended to reflect any real persons living or dead. (*Whispers* fictional Waverly)

Waverly, IA

 

The man with the sunglasses stared at the file in his hand as he checked the list of addresses paper clipped to the manila folder. Others had teased him about going after this guy, saying there was no trail to follow, that he was chasing a ghost. But he wasn’t sure if he believed in ghosts.

He compared the address in the file to the one posted on the house’s mailbox, flipped the file shut, and climbed out of his sleek black car with government plates. He walked up the three steps to the front door of the little brick suburban one-story, surveying the yard as he did so. There were a few toys in the yard, marketed for toddlers; a used Ford sat in the driveway. Middle-income family. His file said the wife stayed at home with the kids.

He knocked on the door and waited as he heard the steps inside coming closer. It was a nice autumn day and not too windy so he didn’t mind the wait.

The wife answered the door, a nondescript, generic woman who was worn down and haggled by child rearing. Five kids all under the age of six would do that, especially with a set of twins.

“Can I help you?” she asked cautiously.

The man removed his sunglasses and smiled a practiced smile at her, one void of anything but a vague sense of pleasantry. “Good evening, Mrs. Jackson,” he greeted.

She looked a little lost on how he knew her name.

He flashed his badge hoping to stem any questions she might have. “I’m looking for your father. I need to speak to him about a case.”

She eyed the man but let him inside, smart enough to know she didn’t need the kind of trouble he could bring upon her. She led him to the living area and stepped aside as if to present her father who was kicked back in a recliner watching TV.

“Dad,” she addressed. He looked at her. “This man needs to talk to you.”

The old man shuffled into the kitchen, stretching as he went, rubbing at the shoulder that had been shot and ended his policing career. They sat at the kitchen table and the man set out his file removing one of the paper clipped photos from it.

The retired officer picked it up and frowned at it. “I remember this kid. One of the Barton boys.” He ran a withered hand down a wizened face. “Tragic case.” He set the picture down on the polished hickory wood table. A stripe of Sharpie marker marred the natural grain. A stain of caked-on glitter did likewise.

“Can you describe to me your involvement?” the man asked.

“I was the responding officer.”

“Responding to what, exactly?”

“The car accident.”

The man leaned back and pulled a pen from his pocket, flipping to an included blank page in the file. “Tell me.”

The ex-cop shook his head, cotton candy tufts of hair swaying white in the yellowy light of the kitchen. “I got the call at about quarter to three. I drove out there and sure enough the car was wrapped around a tree. Both passengers were dead, probably died on impact. The man had been driving drunk, but then again, when was Harold ever sober.”

The man made a note. “Were you the one to tell the children?”

He nodded. “They didn’t seem surprised.” He scoffed. “No one was surprised.”

“And why’s that, would you say?”

The old man just shook his head again. “Because Harold Barton was an abusing son of a bitch who hit his wife and kids and had the nerve to keep on drinking.”

The man noted the statement. “Tell me about the kids? Did you know them?”

He shrugged. “You know a little about everybody in a small town.” He sighed and worked at the Sharpie mark with a bony finger. “Charles Bernard, the oldest, was called Mad.”

“He was crazy?”

The man barked a laugh. “No, no, like the magazine. You know, the one with the kid on front with the red hair and the freckles and the mean little eyes. He got into fights a lot, that kid. But can you blame him? If you were punched on by your old man since you were old enough to talk you’d believe in fightin’ too.”

The man made more notes. “And the other one?”

“Clinton?” He waved it off with a hand. “Kid was sweeter than sugar. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Though, he’d defend himself, mind you. Got into a few fights of his own but never swung the first punch.” He sighed. “Those boys could’a been great. But their daddy ruined them.”

The man noted everything, collected his picture and stood up. “Thank you for your time.” And before the old man could stop him, he was out the door.

 

Ellie Monroe was small in stature, thin as a piece of paper and about the same color. She wore a yellow sweater that matched the yellow paint of her house and sat on the porch with a cup of tea in a china cup with buttercups painted on it. The man took a sip of his own tea before prompting her again. “Please, Miss Monroe.”

She seemed distressed by the line of questioning concerning the brothers. She’d been Barney’s teacher for a whole year and then Clint’s for only a few months as he had been in her grade when the accident occurred. “Very well.” She sighed. “The boys were sweethearts. I only wish others could have seen that.” She took a sip. “Their poor mother. I don’t see how she kept it together as long as she did.”  

“Were you aware of their father’s behavior?”

“Of course!” She appeared insulted. “No boy as graceful, as balanced as Clinton would ever fall that much to cause the bruising he came with to class.” She set her cup down with enough force to rattle the saucer. “Oh, and the day he came in with a piece of paper from the doctor saying he couldn’t hear! I knew it was his father’s doing.”

“Did you ever involve the cops?”

She nodded. “A few times. But you have to understand, the boys were scared, their mother terrified. So they lied, covered it up, never testified. All other evidence was circumstantial. Eventually the cops quit responding to disturbances.” She sighed again. “Pity, really. Could have maybe saved them.”  She played with the handle on her teacup.

The man noted her statement.

“It was strange to see how much worse it had gotten.”

“What do you mean?” the man prompted.

“When I had Barney in class, it was bad, sure. Bruises, fighting, a general downcast to his gaze. But Clint… it was so bad in their house by that point the kid rarely had anything to eat for lunch. I started bringing a spare sandwich just so I’d know he ate that day.”

The man made a note about that. “Thank you, Miss Monroe. You’ve been most helpful.”

“I hope you find him,” she called after the man as he put on his shades.

“I hope I do too.”

 

“Harold and I went to school together,” Mr. Jason Ricketts stated as he folded his thick hands on top of his large mahogany desk. His corner office was comfortable despite the noise of the factory a few floors below. The window was large and overlooking the compound. “We played football together.”

“How would you describe him?”

The man frowned in concentration. “Tall, broad, a good linebacker.” His frown deepened. “His boy would’ve made a good one too.”

“Which one.”

The man laughed. “The older one, of course. Clinton was a stick. Always whiny and sick. He wasn’t cut out for any sport.” He paused. “Maybe something like baseball; the kid had good aim.”

“Would you say his aim was good enough to develop into marksmanship?”

He pondered this. “With a shit ton of training and growing up, sure.”

“Did you know Edith?”

The businessman smiled fondly. “Oh yeah, Edie and I go way back.” He leaned forward on his desk. “Tried to get her to go to a dance with me more than once, but she only had eyes for Harry.”

“Would you say Harold loved his wife?”

The businessman narrowed his brows. “Is this about him being – what did those bleeding hearts call it? – abusive?”

The man just sat there.

“Look, mister, if Harry had to lay a hand on his wife and kids to keep them in line, who was I to stop him? He needed to keep his family in order. I wasn’t going to tell him how to do it.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his rounding stomach. “Harry got a knee injury senior year. Killed his chance at a scholarship. So he opened the shop.” He shook his head. “Harry never was a businessman. Too much brawn, not enough brain. I offered to manage his business for him, let him do the meat, let me handle the finances. But Harry was an independent bastard. Wanted to do it all himself.”

“Would you attribute his failed business to his drinking?”

The businessman threw his head back and laughed. “You for real, mister? We _all_ drink! It’s part of the business world. It’s how we get through it.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Okay, so maybe Harry went a little overboard some nights, but he had a stressful business. And standing all day couldn’t have been good on his knee.”

The man noted the statements. “Thank you for your time.”

“Hey what organization did you say you-”

“I didn’t. Good day.”

 

It reminded the man with the sunglasses of a Rockwell painting. The waiting room was done in that Forties green and pinky-brown; the glass in front of the receptionist’s desk was sagging with time. He was escorted to an empty examine room where the antiquity of the setting remained in tact right down to the thick glass containers of cotton balls and tongue compressors. The paper on the exam table glistened under the harsh overhead lights.

The doctor entered shortly after. He was a tiny man, with large glasses that made his eyes appear to be bulging from his head. Around his neck was an old stethoscope that clacked when he walked. His grey hair was slicked back and his hands were deformed from arthritis. The man could understand why this was the doctor’s last year of practice. He would be moving to Florida in January.

“The nurse said you wished to talk about the Barton boys.”

The man nodded.

“I’m afraid patient confidentiality might prohibit some of my answers. I’m still a doctor, you know.”

“I understand. Please just answer as thoroughly as you can.”

The doctor nodded and took a seat on his wheeled stool. “Fire away.”

“How often would you say a member of the Barton family was in your office?”

The doctor ran his mangled hands over the legs of his pressed, pleated pants. “Can I just say too often?” He tried to add a laugh but it didn’t happen. “Two, three times a month. Sometimes more.”

“And the nature of their injuries?”

He scratched at his elbow; dry, white skin hung there. “Range really. Their youngest was sick a lot. Born premature, that one.”

“How many weeks?”

“A little less than five.”

The man noted it. “What about the oldest? What was he in here with?”

The doctor migrated his scratching to his chin. “Broken arm once. Couple of bruised ribs.” He paused. “Was he the one with the head injury? No, that was the blonde one. Lost his hearing for a spell.”

“How long?”

The doctor shrugged. “I sent them to an audiologist, got him some hearing aids. I don’t know how long he had to wear them.”

“How old was he?”

“About five.” He scratched at a new patch of skin, the hiss of nails raking over scales. “Said he fell out of a tree.”

“Would you support that claim?”

The doctor looked up. His eyes had something dark spreading through them, ink in water. “Let me tell you, only other time I’d seen an injury like that in my whole career was when I was in med school and they showed us a case of a professional fighter who’d gotten his ears boxed.”  

The man nodded and made another note. “Would you say the children were malnourished?”

The doctor thought about it. “They were scrawny. But a lot of boys are that young. Just burning up all kinds of energy.”

“But as a medical practitioner, would you say they were underfed?”

He hung his head again, scratched at his other arm. “Underfed, under clothed. Hell, the older boy’s feet were stuffed in shoes that were too sizes too small and when I told him that could mess ‘em up, he didn’t even look worried.” His scratching intensified, leaving red marks on his skin. “I would venture those kids knew and knew well that they might not survive to the next day.”         

It went in as a note and the man stood up. “That’ll be all, Doctor. Thank you.”

 

Father O’Brian was weeding the finer, smaller intruders from the small garden that sat nestled between the church and the fence that ran along the road. He was hoping to still get a small crop of potatoes to donate to the soup kitchen this month.

The man with the sunglasses approached him and the priest stood up. He was in his late sixties or so, joints starting to ache too much to be on the ground for any length of time.

“Father,” the man greeted as he flashed a badge. “I was hoping you could answer some questions for me.”

“What’s this about?” the old man rumbled, voice deep and booming but gentle and kind. The voice of a seasoned homily giver.

The man handed the priest the file. He frowned when he opened it.

“Oh my,” the good Father exclaimed. “My, that’s an old one.”

“What would you say was the attendance record for the Barton family?” the man asked, taking back the file and pulling out his pen.

The priest leaned on the hoe he’d brought to the garden for the larger weeds. “They got married here. Came almost every Sunday. Then it was just Edith. Then her and little Charles. Then nothing. I don’t think their second son was even Baptized.”

“You presided over the funeral?”

“I did.” He leaned further on the gardening tool. “Sad day, that one. Both kids trying so hard not to cry. Charles dropped a few tears. Clinton eventually bawled.”  

“Were you aware of Mr. Barton’s behavior?”

Father O’Brian passed a hand over his forehead. It might have been autumn, but the sun could still pinch the sweat from his brow. “I think everyone was generally aware of it. You’d hear them talking around town. The boys went to the public school, though, and Edith was never in church. I only saw what the buzz was about when I caught sight of her and the boys out around town.”   

“What would be your overall impression of the boys?”

The priest shifted his hands on the handle of the hoe. “Good kids growing up in hard times.” He sighed. “They could’ve used some faith. I think it might have helped things not seem so bleak.” He wiped his brow again. “It would have been difficult growing up like that and still believe there was a God who loved you. But I think some reassurance could have done some good. Or maybe have given Edith a family to turn to for help, Harold a sounding board for his vice, his demons.”

He shook his head, casting a glance over to the browning vines of the potato plants. They’d be a decent crop.

The man with the sunglasses finished his notes and thanked the priest.

“I’ll pray you find them,” the good Father stated. “Peace be with you.”

“And with your spirit.”

 

It was nighttime. Crickets sang their longing song. The moon and stars were rapturing without the intense glow of a city’s light pollution. It reminded the man of clear nights in Wisconsin.

Francine Lansing was a forty-something divorcee who was eating dinner when a knock came at her door. She set down her current case file and went to answer it.

The man showed her the badge and asked her if she could talk to him about a case of hers. He showed her the file and she rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, sure, throw salt on _that_ wound. I always knew one of those boys would end up being chased by feds.”

The man noted her statement. “And what about them makes you say that?”

She sat back down at the table, closed her current file to mentally grab one from the past. “I deal with kids in the system. I know when one’s drawn a too short stick in life to overcome it. And those boys, hell, their stick was so small it barely counted.”

“You placed them after their parents died?”

“I did. But I knew them long before that.” She blew out a breath, pushed away her tray of TV dinner. “I was called in to do an assessment of the Barton household after Clint lost his hearing. The paperwork wasn’t even processed. Backed up in the system. And then the parents died and they ended up in my lap anyway.”

She rubbed her temples. A strand of frazzled hair slipped into her face and she struggled to wrangle it back behind her ear. “Saddest thing was the boys weren’t surprised. They barely reacted when they were told their parents were dead.” She looked at the man. “You wanna know what Barney’s first words were? ‘He finally did it.’”

The man made a note.

Francine crossed her arms, resting her elbows on the table. “The town called it tragic. But you want to know what the real tragedy is? This whole town knew, fucking _knew_ it was going to happen. And no one did a damn thing about it. We all just agreed that it was going to happen. Said ‘when’ not ‘if.’ We all knew and no one did a thing to stop it.”

The man looked at her carefully. He could feel her pain, knew the struggle of what it was like to not be able to stop bad things from happening. The clean up was possible but it was rarely enough.

He thanked her for her time, explaining that he’d gotten all he’d needed.

He left, drove back to the East Coast and met with a dark man in a hole-in-the-wall diner.  

“How goes the bird watching?” the dark man inquired as he sipped coffee from a contrasting white ceramic mug.

“I have some leads,” the man with the sunglasses replied. “The kid was deafened as a child, so that could explain his solitary tendencies. Born premature and was malnourished, so I’m thinking we’re not looking for a big man. He’ll be lithe and flexible, have incredible balance and marksmanship, along with defensive instincts.”

“Your ghost is starting to take shape.”  

The man with the sunglasses just hummed. “Interesting place, Waverly.”

“How so?” Another sip.

“Because it’s a haunted town.” He looked out the window at the passing red and white taillights of traffic. “Even without its ghost.”


End file.
